"No, don't get her up," he interrupted. "I'm at the airport and I just thought I'd call before I try to remember where I parked the car. Emma sounded happy when I called last night, but since I didn't really get a chance to talk to you... Well, I wondered how things went. I wasn't sure we'd get a chance to talk in the morning."
Marian tucked the receiver in the crook of her shoulder and sank into the comfortable, worn armchair where she did most of her knitting. It was odd how easily she could picture his lean face just from the sound of his voice.
"Emma's done well," she assured him. "She loved Snowball. She says you have horses, but they're all too big for her."
"Yeah, I'm breeding Arabians. I guess I should get Emma a pony of her own. She'd enjoy that, wouldn't she?"
The words hurt, but Marian made herself say them. "I may have to find a home for Snowball. I wanted to wait until the last minute, but if you're interested I know Emma would be good to him—"
He interrupted again. "Why do you have to get rid of him? Your own kids are just getting to the age where they'd enjoy a pony."
"I know." Marian blinked back tears. "But we have to move shortly. Finding a rental with property is next-to-impossible. And I can't afford to board him."
"Does that mean the goat, too?"
She laughed shakily. "Any chance you want a goat for Emma?"
There was a moment's silence before he said thoughtfully, "I can see the problem. I didn't realize you were renting."
"Unfortunately. The owners are planning to build condominiums here. I can understand... But I've lived here six years and it's home. Oh, damn..." She swiped at suddenly wet cheeks. What had gotten into her? "I'm sorry," she said more formally. "You don't need to hear my troubles. Especially after a long weekend. You must be tired."
"I am," he admitted, sounding it. "The traveling wears me down. Different time zones, too many restaurants and hotels...and now an hour-and-a-half drive. You'd think I'd be used to it." His laugh was rueful. "Hey, listen to me. I've had a long two days and I'm asking for sympathy from a woman who has six kids, twelve hours a day, week in and week out!"
"You'd be surprised how many people think I don't really work for a living," she said. "I'm home, right? That must mean I have plenty of time to bake cookies for the bazaar or run over to let the repairman into somebody's house."
"Don't you have anyone who can give you a break?"
The compassion in his rough-edged voice made Marian realize how she must have sounded. He was too easy to talk to. No, it wasn't him; if he'd been sitting here, watching her with those perceptive gray eyes, distracting her with his intensely masculine presence, she wouldn't have found him so easy to talk to. It had to be the telephone, the anonymity. The modern confessional.
Forcing amusement into her voice, she said. "Oh, don't listen to me right now. I'm tired, too. I love kids and I enjoy them most of the time. It's the parents..."
"Watch yourself!" he said humorously.
She chuckled. "Well, you're not a regular."
There was a pause. "No. Listen, I'm probably keeping you up. Thanks for listening. Sometimes I miss coming home from trips and having someone to talk to. Someone above three feet tall, that is."
"I know what you mean. That's the hardest part..." Marian broke off. What an odd conversation. She didn't even know this man, and here they were baring their souls. Well, not quite, thank goodness. She made herself sound more reserved. "Shall we see you in the morning?"
"Yes. Seven-thirty, eight o'clock? That's not too early for you?"
She laughed again. "Are you kidding? The hordes will have already descended!"
"Then I'd better come and snatch Emma from the eye of the storm. She has school, anyway," he added practically. "You might remind her."
"So she doesn't wear those jeans with the holes in the knees? No problem. See you in the morning."
Marian hung up the receiver, then very slowly sank down into the chair again. The house was so quiet around her that she strained to hear the small, familiar night sounds: the clink of tags as one of the dogs moved restlessly, a sleepy sigh, the rustle of bedcovers. Nothing. She felt...alone. Was it John McRae's sympathy that had undermined her defenses? Or the attraction she couldn't deny she felt for him?
It had been so long. She remembered how it was to fall in love. To share laughter and sadness, silliness and pain, with someone who cared. To weaken with passion, to make the earth move for someone else. To be able to lay your head on a strong chest and cry.
She was contented with her life; of course she was. Anna and Jesse were her joy. But she was all they had to lean on, and she had nobody. Oh, she talked to her father once a month, but he was a remote man who had never been interested in his own children, far less his grandchildren. And she had friends, some of whom had been very supportive, but, at best, the closeness had begun to slip away in the last two years. Friendships only prospered when you had time to invest in them.
Sometimes Marian longed desperately just to be able to lay her burden down and walk away, only for a few hours, to think her own thoughts, to please herself. Sometimes, at night, she wondered what it would have been like if Mark had stayed. If he'd been here to hold the babies, to give them bottles and change their diapers and make them laugh. Would the marriage have lasted if she hadn't gotten pregnant? Or if it hadn't been with twins?
She could scarcely picture Mark's face anymore, although sometimes it looked back at her when Jesse's eyes twinkled with mischief or when Anna scowled. Did Mark ever think about her, or about the children? Did he ever wonder what he had missed?
But she knew better. Her pensive mood vanished in a rush of anger. If Mark had cared at all, if he'd harbored even the tiniest amount of regret, he would have at least paid child support. He wouldn't have deserted her so utterly.
Marian was grateful for the sting of anger. It carried her through her last tasks and to bed, just as it had given her the strength to cope these last three years. Where would she be without that anger?
Probably waiting for Prince Charming to rescue her, she thought impatiently, tugging the covers up around her shoulders. When John McRae immediately appeared in her mind's eye, she groaned and rolled over, burying her face in the pillow. The first attractive single man she'd met in years, and she was ready to knight him.
Well, this candidate might look the part, but he was missing a few qualifications for the job. Otherwise, why was his daughter asleep in Marian's extra bedroom?
*****
Weary as he was after getting in at nearly midnight, John had trouble sleeping that night. The house felt too damned empty without Emma in it. Or maybe he was the one who felt empty, without the purpose she gave his life.
At an ungodly hour the next morning, he gave up and headed into the bathroom to shave. The face that stared back at him from the mirror was disconcerting. Today he showed his age. The lines on his forehead and beside his eyes were carved deeper and his mouth had a cynical tilt. The Monday morning blues, he thought. He felt as battered as he had when he'd been on the field taking punishment. Now he didn't even have that excuse. Shaking his head, he reached for the razor.
Half an hour later, but considerably earlier than he had told her to expect him, John parked the car in Marian's dirt lane. His long strides carried him to the front door, where he knocked, producing the expected uproar. As he waited for the door to open, he wondered about his eagerness. Was it only Emma he couldn't wait to see?
When Marian appeared in the doorway, her dark hair confined in a fat braid that flopped over her slender shoulder, John knew the answer by the tightening he felt in his chest. Yes, he'd missed his daughter, but he'd also wanted very badly to see Marian again.
The quick smile she offered was warm and, for the first time, all for him. A wave of raw hunger hit him, making his voice a notch huskier.
"I hope I'm not too early?"
"No, no, of course not," she said, her attention distracted. "For heaven's sake, Rhodo, hush!" She s
ighed and stood back. "Emma's still eating. Come on in."
Bending automatically to pet the two dogs, he followed her. She wore jeans again, with a loose-fitting cotton shirt tucked in that emphasized a tiny waist that his hands ached to span.
Unfortunately, he saw no sign whatsoever that she was physically conscious of him. Unless her very casualness as she hurried into the kitchen ahead of him qualified.
"Lizzie, Joshua doesn't want you to feed him! He can feed himself."
The little girl, who was trying to cram a spoonful of oatmeal into a toddler's mouth, reluctantly stopped. "Do dogs like oatmeal?"
"No, they don't," Marian said firmly.
In the mob of six—no, seven—kids at the table, it took John a moment to spot his own daughter.
"Daddy!" Emma leaped out of her chair and into his arms, which closed tightly around her small body.
"I missed you, honey," he murmured, for an instant forgetting the dark-eyed woman who stood watching them. At last he let Emma go and leaned over to plant a kiss on top of her head. "Go ahead and finish your breakfast. We're not in any hurry."
"Have you had breakfast?" Marian asked, from the other side of the table. "There's plenty."
"Maybe a piece of toast," he said. "Thanks." Taking one from the platter, he used Emma's knife to slather it with jam. Raspberry, he discovered, taking a bite. And obviously homemade.
After he had swallowed, he said appreciatively,"A woman of many talents." Lifting the toast in mock salute, he strolled into the kitchen and leaned against the counter beside her.
She wrinkled her nose. "The hardest part of making jam is picking the darn berries. I can't claim cooking as one of my talents."
"No? Then what is?"
A shadow seemed to cross her face, although her voice stayed light. "I'm good with kids. Speaking of which... Lizzie, please don't feed the dog. He shouldn't eat people food."
"But he likes it."
"Do I need to put Aja and Rhodo out?"
The littie girl pouted, but she shook her head.
"Thank you," Marian said gently. Catching the amusement in John's gaze, she rolled her eyes. "Maybe I'd make a good drill sergeant. What do you think?"
"There's not enough snap in your voice."
"I can scream with the best of 'em."
He swallowed the last of his toast. "Since we're back to the subject of your talents... Tell me, did you make that quilt in your bedroom?"
Her cheeks warmed, as though the mention of her bedroom held enough intimacy to make her self-conscious. Nodding, she said, "I'll have you know, it took me about ten years, at one square a year. Worse than having a baby."
"It's beautiful." He lifted his voice. "Emma, if you're done, why don't you go collect your things?"
"I'm done, too," Lizzie announced.
"Me, too," Jesse said.
"Done," Anna agreed, then stood precariously in her high chair. Only John heard Marian's faint sigh. As she rescued her daughter and began washing hands and sticky faces, John started carrying dirty dishes to the sink. He glanced around the kitchen, astonished not to see a dishwasher; but something told him that Marian wouldn't appreciate comment on the fact. After going back for another pile, he started rinsing plates off.
Marian looked up, startled. "Oh, you don't have to…
"I don't like to stand around," he said, his tone not allowing for argument. A minute later he began running soapy water into the sink.
The children all vanished into the living room, where they happily squabbled over who got what coloring book. Marian carried the last dishes in. "Please, you don't need to..." When he frowned, she stopped, then cleared her throat. "Uh...do you know how?”
John grinned. "Do I detect a little sex stereotyping here?"
An enchanting pair of dimples appeared when she laughed. "Let's just say it's a first for me."
"Hey, I'm a prince among men," he said loftily, wanting very badly to capture the vivacity on her face, to hear that delicious chuckle again. But it appeared he'd failed, because her smile slowly faded. "Did I say something wrong?" he asked.
She worried at her soft lower lip as her dark eyes searched his. "Nothing, really. You just...oh, reminded me of something." She turned away to reach for a dish towel and added in what he guessed was meant to be an offhand tone, "Tell me, do all men imagine themselves as a prince in disguise, sweeping a woman away?"
"Lord, no," he said, hiding his shock. Because, damn it, he'd just discovered that that's exactly what he'd like to be. Her prince. The ogres he wanted to sweep her away from were dirty dishes and other people's children, bills he doubted she could pay, and worries she pretended not to have.
He did his best to keep his face impassive as he added, "But you remind me of an offer I do want to make you."
Reaching for a clean plate, she said warily, "An offer?"
"It's about Snowball. Instead of buying him, I'd like to board him for you. No charge." He lifted a hand as she started to interrupt. "No, let me finish. I have twenty-five horses already. We wouldn't even notice the addition of one pint-size one. You could bring your kids to ride him anytime. While he's with us, Emma would have the privilege of riding him. That way, we'd both get what we want. I wouldn't have to buy a pony that Emma would outgrow in just a couple of years, and you'd be able to hold on to Snowball. And I could be talked into the goat with the same arrangement."
Her brow crinkled. "But...what would you want with a goat?"
"Blackberries keep springing up in our pastures. I hear goats are damn near the only way to get rid of blackberries once and few all, short of poisons I'd prefer not to use around the horses. You'd be doing me a favor."
"Why don't I believe that?" she said softly.
He wanted to smooth the worry from her brow. No, what he wanted—needed—was to touch her, with any excuse at all. He was probably crazy, but he reached out, his hand curled into a fist, and lightly stroked her cheek with his knuckle. The contact was fleeting, but it jolted him like walking into an electric fence.
"Don't worry so much," he said huskily.
Her eyes widened in something very close to panic and then she ducked her head away from his hand, which fell back to his side. She spoke in a muffled voice. "I can't take a favor like that. It's...it's kind of you, but..."
He made himself thrust his hands in dishwater and say brusquely, "I love my daughter, that's all." He rinsed some plates under the faucet and stacked them in the drainer, not looking at Marian. "You'd make her gloriously happy if you agreed. And I mean the offer. It's practical for both of us. Just think about it, okay?"
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her watching him with a troubled gaze. "I can promise that much, at least," she agreed uncertainly. "And I don't want you to think I don't appreciate..."
Catching both by surprise, Emma popped up right behind them and craned her neck to see between them. "Why are you washing the dishes, Daddy?"
"To be helpful," John said. "You all ready to go, kiddo? I'm about done here."
He'd already decided that strategic retreat was the order of the day. Anyway, he was looking forward to hearing how Emma had enjoyed the weekend. Because he'd had an idea that would kill two birds with one stone, to put it vulgarly. If Marian could take Emma every weekend, he'd not only feel comfortable about his daughter, but he'd have an excuse to see Marian again. Regularly. And he'd be able to avoid a repeat of the housekeeper hunt.
So he made their good-byes casual and left a check bigger than Marian had asked for. He could still see her small house in his car's rearview mirror when he asked Emma about the weekend.
"It was fun, Daddy." She bounced in the seat. "Can I go there again? I didn't really like the lady that was going to come to our house that much. I like Marian. So could I...?"
"I think that's a good idea," John said firmly. "I'll call Marian tonight. Okay?"
"Okay!"
Of course, that was only step one, he thought with satisfaction. Step two was going to be
luring Marian away from all the children so he could have her to himself for a few hours.
Why was he so sure that it wasn't going to be easy?
CHAPTER 3
"Then I'll expect Emma Friday afternoon," Marian said.
She slowly replaced the telephone receiver and stood without moving, staring out the window into the backyard where the children played in the sandbox. Warning bells were going off in her head. No, that was ridiculous. She'd agreed to take Emma again only because of the generous check John had left. That amount weekly added to what she already earned might make the difference in the kind of rental she would be able to afford. And it wasn't as though Emma had been any trouble. Despite the sadness beneath, she was a joyous child, one who had all too easily touched Marian's heart.
She would simply have to be wary of her own vulnerability, Marian told herself firmly. She cringed at the idea of Emma's father discovering how his kindness had affected her.
Who was she kidding? He hadn't even needed to be kind! It was that slow, rough voice, the penetrating gray eyes, the broad shoulders, and the lazy, graceful way he moved. Marian shivered as she pictured the rare smile that warmed his face.
The real trouble was that John McRae had reminded her of her own nearly forgotten sexuality, of the sweetness and passion and tenderness that was possible between a man and a woman. Unfortunately, along with that she'd remembered betrayal and sorrow and loneliness. For her, the happiness in her marriage had become inextricably tangled in her memory with the sadness.
Exhilaration and heartbreak. She didn't need either, Marian thought fiercely, turning from the window to hurry out into the backyard. Her children were enough. They had to be enough. She would not allow John McRae to reawaken longings she could no longer afford.
She crouched by the sandbox. "Hey, guys, want some help making a castle?"
*****
Emma accepted her father's hug with grace, but without the previous week's misery. When he released her, she danced away. "Hey, Jessie, Anna. Let's go pet Snowball. Can we ride, Marian?"
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